


Shootout

by gendzl



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 1 pie lost forever thanks to the LAX bros being unbelievably worse than expected, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out (to family), Coming Out (to the world), Crack premise treated seriously, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2020-12-31 14:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21147227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gendzl/pseuds/gendzl
Summary: Bitty looks down in hazy surprise as blood blooms across his chest. The pie plate continues its path from his hand to the ground, smashing almost in slow motion across the divide between concrete and grass. Cherry juice seeps through the broken lattice, blood seeps through his fingers, the world tilts on its axis.His last thought before he loses consciousness is "Fffuuckthe LAX bros."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I have two other WIPs for this fandom. Yes, I should be working on those instead. Hush.

The Worst Idea Anyone Has Ever Had (won by horrified unanimous vote after the fact) arrives on a quiet Tuesday over Mandatory Frog Lunch.

(None of them had actually missed Mandatory Frog Lunch since its inception late in their sophomore year, so there wasn’t any reason to call it Mandatory, but Chowder liked to threaten the two of them with fines anyway.)

"I swear, he made me a pie when we were having an argument last semester and it tasted, well. Not awful, because he isn’t capable of making anything taste bad, it’s _Bitty_, but it was angry."

Dex snorts. "Huh. I wonder if he can bake something for the LAX bros that makes them experience shame for once in their lives."

Nursey’s face breaks into a grin and he leans forward across the table to grab Dex’s chin in one hand. He smacks him one right on the lips and then takes off towards the doors. "Genius," he hollers back at him while running out of the dining hall. He bashes into two people and the door jamb before making it out, but Dex is too preoccupied to notice.

No, Dex is busy pointing at Chowder with a lukewarm fry, face as red as the ketchup that threatens to drip onto the table. "Not a word, Chow."

Chowder has both hands pressed over his mouth to stifle his glee, eyes wide above them. He drops his hands after a moment and is smiling so wide an undiscerning eye might have mistaken his teeth for Holster’s. "I just—"

Dex slides off the bench and jogs off after Nursey before he can finish his thought.

* * *

"Wait, so you want me to bake _the LAX bros_ a pie? Seriously?" Bitty’s apron is covered in flour and the Haus kitchen smells overwhelmingly like cinnamon and oranges, probably chosen in an effort to cover the lingering stench of spilled tub juice from the previous kegster. It was only sort of working.

Dex nods. "Just like, a passive-aggressive pie. Make them eat it and start weeping."

"Make them apologize to their mothers," Nursey adds.

"For _what?"_

"Birthing them? I don’t know, just." He changes tacks. "You’re graduating in a month, and it might be good to make peace with them?" That makes sense, right?

Bitty looks out the curtained window towards the LAX house, considering. "I mean. I guess? I won't be around to deal with them, but...well, alright, now what kind of captain would I be if I left you to deal with that animosity all on your own?" He nods decisively. "I’ll make them an apology pie."

He takes a tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven before eyeing them again. "But not too apologetic. They still suck."

"Guys!" Chowder yells, slamming the door open with a _bang_. "I can't believe you left me there! I hadn't finished my milkshake! Five dollars in the sin bin for abandoning Mandatory Frog Lunch early, both of you."

He collapses down into a chair, somewhat smug at finally getting to fine them. Nursey snorts and drops a $10 bill in the jar for both him and Dex.

Dex ignores this, instead swatting at Chowder's hand as he reaches to swipe a finger through the bowl of orange icing. "Dude, gross, you were just in the dining hall. Wash your hands. Oh, and Bitty—I’m pretty sure the LAX house is getting condemned or something. I saw some guy in a suit on their porch last week, making all these notes on a clipboard."

"Gosh, that'd be great!" Chowder says.

Nursey nods in agreement. "Maybe it can be a passive-aggressive/fake-pity pie." He both says the 'slash' and draws in the air with one hand. Dex tries not to find this cute.

Chowder eyes Dex like he knows something Dex doesn't and then looks sidelong at Nursey. "So, Nursey, was that the first time you've kissed Dex?"

Bitty startles and sends a piping hot cinnamon roll careening across the room. "YOU KISSED?!" he hollers.

Dex hides his face in his hands and groans.

* * *

Bitty, being Bitty, puts off baking the apology/shame pie (because no matter what he called it, there _would_ be heaping spoonfuls of shame in that pie) until the week before graduation.

It’s quite possibly the prettiest pie he’s made all year, and he’s almost loathe to give it to them. Nobody on the team would eat it though, once Nursey spread the word about who it was for. He snaps a few photos instead, for posterity’s sake, sending one to Kent with a devil emoji as the only caption.

He takes the (cheap dollar store glass, because fuck the LAX bros) pie plate in hand and makes his way across the street towards their den of iniquity.

Bitty feels the pinch before he hears the popping sounds, and is distracted from all of it by the squeal of tires around the corner. He huffs in annoyance and continues toward the LAX house.

Except he only takes one step before the pinch grows into a clawing pain and he makes a noise not unlike a whine, forgetting all about the pie (some corner of his brain is screaming about this) as he presses his hands to wet fabric.

Bitty looks down in hazy surprise as blood blooms across his chest. The pie plate continues its path from his hand to the ground, smashing almost in slow motion across the divide between concrete and grass. Cherry juice seeps through the broken lattice, blood seeps through his fingers, the world tilts on its axis.

His last thought before he loses consciousness is "_Fffuuck_ the LAX bros."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The university where I live has commencement in the second week of May, and that’s the timing that I’m giving to Samwell. The Aces are in the playoffs because #chaos, which means one week before graduation is [checks calendar] smack in the middle of them. Fun!

"Has anyone called Kent?" Dex asks.

Half the SMH team has been packed into the hospital’s waiting room for almost an hour at this point. Dex is the first to break the silence—they’ve all been sitting numbly since a nurse pushed them towards the seating area with a stern directive to let them work.

"Who?" Nursey asks in return.

"Kent," Dex says. "Bitty’s boyfriend. The hospital called his parents, but has anyone told Kent what happened?"

Chowder flings his legs off the arm of his chair and crouches to rifle through his backpack. "Shit. Shit shit _shit_."

Dex looks around at the rest of the team. "Does anyone even have his number?"

Nursey looks bewildered when he says, "Dude, I didn’t even know he had a boyfriend. Is it that guy from—"

"Shiiiiit. He’s not dating a LAX bro, is he?" one of the taddies interrupts. Tasteless. Like Bitty would ever date one of them.

Chowder emerges from the depths of his bag before anyone can respond. "Got it!" He’s clutching a wrinkled receipt triumphantly.

Nursey leans across Dex to grab it. "Chowder, why do you have an eight month old murder run receipt in your bag?"

"Kent’s number is on the back. He gave it to me last time he was here, but I never put it in my phone."

Nursey looks around the room. "So who’s gonna call this guy?"

* * *

Kent doesn’t know anything is wrong until long after it’s over. It’s not like in the movies, where an unnamed dread grows in the pit of his stomach, or he loses his balance on the ice "for no reason" that turns out to have been the moment things went sideways on the other side of the country. It’s just…practice. As usual.

He skates off the ice, showers, pats a few of his teammates on the back in encouragement, and is halfway to the parking lot—absently pondering what to do for lunch—before he thinks to check his phone. Eric had mentioned something about pie, earlier, and he’d probably sent him a photo or two.

He has 16 missed calls, 3 voicemails, and 29 unread messages.

Kent’s heart drops into his stomach.

"Hi, Kent, this is Chowder, uh, Bitty’s teammate? Uh, Eric’s, I mean. You call him Eric." _[voices whispering in the background]_ "Right, sorry, who cares what you call him. He’s in really bad shape right now, he—I—can someone else—" _[harsh static as someone fumbles with the phone and a new voice comes on]_ "Hey Kent, Dex here. Bitty’s in the hospital with a gunshot wound to the chest. No, I’m not kidding, no, this is not some kind of sick joke, and yes, I’m serious. He’s been airlifted to Mass Gen. Please come."

Kent starts running while the next message plays, heart pounding and hunger forgotten.

"This is Dex again. Bitty has been in surgery for a few hours now and nobody’s heard from you. I really hope you’re on your way. We don’t have any updates, because we aren’t family so they won’t tell us anything except that they’re working on him and he’s not—he’s not dead. We called his parents, and they’re flying in—gonna get here late tonight sometime, I think. Not sure what you two have told them, if anything, but. Yeah…God, I hope you’re coming."

Kent is fumbling for his keys with his free hand and slamming a hip into the crash bar on the exit door when a hand falls on his shoulder.

"Kent?" It’s Jeff, eyebrows pinched together in concern.

A tinny voice announces: "Next message, from: Jack Z."

Kent keeps the phone pinned to his ear and brings his other hand up (keys and all) to cover Jeff’s mouth so he can listen.

"Hey, Kenny. I’m at the hospital with the rest of the guys. I—I know you’ve got a game tomorrow, but if you’re not in the air right now, you need to be."

He scoffs. As though he’d even thought about the game. As though he’d ever have picked a _game_ over Eric. He removes his hand from Jeff’s mouth. "I have to get to Massachusetts. Eric’s in the hospital."

Jeff’s mouth sets in a grim line. He squeezes Kent’s shoulder and pushes the door the rest of the way open; the sunshine that peeks through the opening is so incongruous to Kent’s mood that he’s almost startled to see it. _If this was a movie, it would be raining_, he thinks inanely.

"We’ll take my car. You’re in no shape to drive," Jeff says.

For once, Kent doesn’t protest.

* * *

Jeff spends the next 20 minutes on the phone with the airline, trying to find a ticket that will get Kent to Eric before he crawls out of his own skin. Some distant part of Kent is grateful that he doesn't have to think about anything practical, because he's not sure he'd be able to force his mind out of its current state of sheer pants-shitting panic.

Jeff hugs him tightly at the gate and says, "I’ll call Mark. He’ll arrange for a car to bring you to the hospital once you land, okay? We’ll get you a hotel room or something, too. Don’t worry about anything but Eric."

That distantly-grateful portion of himself morphs into distantly-offended that people keep expecting him to worry about immaterial things when his boyfriend is getting operated on. He can’t think—doesn’t want to think—about anything but Eric.

Instead of saying anything, he just clings to Jeff’s side until his flight is called.

It takes five hours to fly from Vegas to Boston. Kent spends all of them wondering if he'll be too late.

For the very first time, Kent hates his job.


	3. Chapter 3

The disheveled blond guy at the ICU nurses' station looks vaguely familiar, Tanner thinks, though it could very well be that most visitors all share the same frantic expression and general air of distress. He glances at the man's companions and, nope, that's not it. They all look alike, but he's seen whoever the hell this is somewhere else.

He's really pretty, despite the obvious anxiety. Some reality show, maybe? No. Sports? Something with sports. He's pretty sure it's sports.

Ugh, this is gonna bug him for the rest of his shift.

As he steps within earshot, Tanner realizes that he's once again missed an obvious body language cue, because he's walked right into the middle of an argument. It appears that the blond is trying to get past Rose.

Never a good idea.

"—me see him? It's not like I'm asking you to let me alter his chart or operate on him myself. He's my boyfriend, for God's sake, why can't you just _let me in?"_

Oh, this poor guy.

Rose's reply falls from her mouth flatly. She is a broken record. A mountain that will not be moved. Guardian of the ICU. "I'm sorry sir, but until his family arrives, there's nothing I can do."

There's no other word for it: the guy's face _crumples_. One of the tall young men behind him clasps his shoulder in sympathy and then startles as the familiar-unfamiliar-probably-sports guy turns and buries his face in his chest. "I'm his family," he manages.

Rose, implacable, turns back to the computer and resumes typing at breakneck speed.

Tanner starts towards them, but the movement catches Rose's eye and so he alters course, snatching up a small stack of charts and hoofing it back towards the break room before she gets the chance to unleash her ever-present ire in his direction. This Rose by any other name would be just as irascible.

It takes another twenty minutes for the name Kent Parson to float up from the depths of his subconscious. When it does, Tanner googles the NHL playoff schedule and then sits in stunned silence until his pager beeps.

* * *

Kent is intimately familiar with loss. Loss of family, of loved ones, of possible futures and a normal life. He's been in hospitals like this one before. He knows them well. He knows well how he gets when he is in them.

Last time, he went 62 hours without sleep: complete pants-shitting panic followed by fruitless arguing with nurses, exhausted arguing with parents, insert-adjective-here arguing with anyone he could find until he was blue in the face before finally returning to the last place he called "home", getting drafted, and moving to Vegas with nothing more than a duffel bag of hockey equipment and a shoebox of memories.

One of the most unfortunate, intolerable aspects of loss is that—unlike so many other things—it doesn't get any easier the more you do it.

Kent knows perfectly well that having his hands tied this way (by fate, by uncertainty, by impossible ICU nurses) will do nothing but make him an uncomfortable, irresponsible mix of angry and impulsive.

And knowing how he responded in the past to this kind of situation does nothing to stop it from happening again.

So when he finally accepts that Rose isn't going to budge for love or money, he makes his way towards the waiting room, fully intent on not leaving until either the nurses finally let him in to see Eric or his parents do. And then he slips his phone from his pocket and opens Twitter.

He ignores the concerned and confused mutterings of the Samwell Men's Hockey team while he types.

**@KVP:** We talk a big game about how #HockeyIsForEveryone, but slapping rainbow pride tape on our hockey sticks once a year does nothing to change the realities of being a gay man playing in the NHL.

**@KVP:** Right now, I'm sitting in an ICU waiting room, terrified that I'll lose my partner. And yet in the back of my mind I'm still worrying about whether the nurse who recognized me is going to out me somewhere because he overheard me asking if my boyfriend is still alive.

**@KVP:** Because I'm not out—because hockey continues to foster an environment in which I have always felt I could never be out—I have nothing to prove that I am this man's family. There is nothing which tells anyone that I have every right to sit at his bedside.

**@KVP:** It's not worth this. Hockey could never be worth this.

**@KVP:** My name is Kent Parson. I've captained the @LasVegasAces through to two Stanley Cups. I am also unrepentantly, irretrievably, incandescently gay.

**@KVP:** @NHL, it's time you put your money where your mouth is.

When he hits the Tweet All button, no fewer than four phones in the vicinity start buzzing.

He flips his own over and removes the battery before shoving it back in his pocket and leaning forward, placing his head between his knees.

No takebacks.


End file.
